Entrenched
by like a lemon
Summary: AU. WW1 fic. Kirk and the crew are based at the frontline. Lots of angst. Hoping to make it multi chapter.


**Entrenched**

The trenches were dark, wet, depressing places. Kirk could not have even imagined it would be like this. His eyes surveyed the bunker he was currently resting in. He couldn't feel anything at that moment. There was too much to process.

28 of his 50 men had been killed today. 28. How could he have let this happen? How could he have sent his men out there into certain death?

He thought about each man individually and he could feel the guilt rolling up his spine like a freezing fog, mounting as each face passed through his mind. It engulfed him until he could feel no more, numbed and strangled. He couldn't make a noise or even move, his burden was so heavy.

"It was not your fault, Jim." A soft, low voice broke the defening silence in the bunker. Normally, there was no silence in this hell. Only the loud crashing of the artillery followed by the rumble of the earth as it quaked under the impact. However, since the last offensive there had been silence as both the Central and Allied forces tried to preserve sanity and heal wounds that could never be repaired.

"It was my fault. I am their captain! They had no choice but to follow my command and it killed them!" Kirk's voice had risen to a shout. His face flushed. He felt his facade crack. He collapsed down on one of the bunks in the muddy dugout. He was so damned exhausted he could hardly think anymore.

There was another hideous silence.

"Captain, you were following orders yourself. Your argument is moot. Nothing could possibly have been done to prevent this, other than the renunciation of the title of Field Marshal to someone who understands the futility of this situation, or a peace treaty. Neither of which seem a likely outcome in the near future."

"I know, Spock. I know all that! But it was _me_ that gave those orders to our men. Not Field Marshal Marcus. Me. There is blood on my hands Spock." Jim shivered at his last words as they rang through his head.

Kirk looked over at Spock, to catch his eyes softening. Lieutenant Spock had been his second in command for 2 years now. He always marvelled at his strength, physically and mentally. Throughout The War, Spock had been Kirk's rock. It seemed that no matter how many battles his company was put through, Spock was always there to pick up the pieces, even when Kirk couldn't do it.

In the beginning Kirk had been worried that it was because of emotional detachment from the men that they commanded. At times it certainly did appear that Spock didn't care about their fallen comrades. Which had angered Kirk hugely. Kirk had always been extremely passionate about his men and wanted to protect them all, a fallen comrade to Kirk was as painful as losing a brother. Yet it did not seem the same with Spock. However, over the years Kirk had realised that Spock did care. He cared just as fiercely as Kirk. Kirk could see it in his eyes even if it didn't show on his face.

Spock stood tall in the entry way to the dugout. His uniform smeared in mud and ripped on the sleeves and legs where he had clambered through barbed wire. His face was clean though. In the sickening grey light his skin appeared luminescent and white. He had dark circles under his eyes and his mouth was set in a neutral line. The black cap of hair atop his head was slightly disheveled and dirty.

"You were following orders, Jim. Although you refered the orders, they were not your orders, the men are very aware of that. If you had refused to deliver them you would have been court marshalled and killed. The men respect you too greatly to see that happen to you. They would rather fight with you, Jim. Than see you killed for trying to protect them." Spock spoke in a hushed low tone. "You cannot bear this upon yourself, Jim."

"I know..." Kirk sighed. "You're always right, Spock. But it doesn't matter who's orders they were in the end, does it? They are still dead." With that Kirk lay down on the bunk and closed his eyes. He didn't care that he still was caked in mud or that he had a large cut across the back of his hand haphazardly bandaged by McCoy on their initial return from the mission. He just wanted to get away from it all.

Kirk could hear Spock move across the bunker to towards the bed he was lying on. His standard issue boots letting out a dull thud on the compacted mud floor. The flimsy wooden bunk, that Kirk had fashioned himself, creeked when Spock perched on the side. Spock gently lay his hand on Kirk's fore arm that was thrown over his chest.

The warmth of his hand seeped through Kirk's sleeve, almost like it were a liquid. It anchored Kirk to something, while his mind was threatening to become unhinged and betray him completely, giving over to the turmoil that he felt. The warmth fended off the freezing fog in that isolated area of Kirk's fore arm. It reminded him that although death had taken so many, there were still those that survived. He needed to be there for the remainder of his company.

"How are they?" Kirk asked. By they he meant the survivors. He needed to hang on to the living.

"4 have been taken back to base for surgery." Spock did not remove his hand as he spoke. "And 6 are with Dr. McCoy now in the aid post. McCoy assured me that the 6 with him will be fine, except for a few scars." Spock did not go on to the 4 that had been transported back to base. Kirk knew that their chances of survival were low.

"Bones will do his best." Kirk was surprised that he had said this out loud, he hadn't meant to. If for any reason it was to reassure himself.

"The other 12 men are helping with the repairs to the front and with the walking wounded."

Another few minutes of silence ebbed away before Spock suddenly stood. Kirk opened his eyes slowly, hoping that he would see something other that the dank walls of the dugout. Spock quickly returned to the bunk with 2 cups and a bottle of whiskey. Handing one cup to Kirk, he poured them each a generous measure. Kirk sat up and downed it. It burned a path down his throat.

"Captain Kirk?" The sudden question in the silence filled the dugout and ricocheted off the walls. Overhead the artillery began firing again, the heavy air trembling and causeing Kirk's ribcage to vibrate. It seemed that was all the silence they were going to get.

To be continued...


End file.
